


the absence of light

by spidye



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Clone Wars, Fluff and Angst, Force Bond (Star Wars), M/M, Not A Fix-It, Sad Ending, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-18 10:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16116944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidye/pseuds/spidye
Summary: Ask the darkness what it needs, and it will tell you.A commissioned Kingsman/MCU crossover, in the Star Wars universe.





	the absence of light

**Author's Note:**

> a commission done for @auntierat on twitter. if you liked this then give [string theory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15067655/chapters/34932749) a look too.
> 
> content warning for needles.

He lays in his coffin for a long time.

It’s an odd place to be in. The water, thick and plasma-like, cradles Eggsy’s body, keeping him balanced in a slow, warm limbo. For as much as the water is reluctant to give him up to the depths, gravity is equally patient, welcoming him with a colder, darker embrace.

 _Whenever you’re ready,_ it assures him. _I have more than one eternity to spare._

Overhead, the rippling surface of the water distorts the sky. Eggsy watches, allowing the eclipsed sun to waver in and out of focus. Though most of her form is masked by the planet’s moon, she’s alight at the edge of the eclipse. The lighting, combined with the soft haze of clouds and the slight tint of red at the edges, gives the sun the appearance of being on fire, burning silently in the otherwise dark sky. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s leaving a small, dissipating trail of blood in his wake, and _that’s_ what’s discoloring the sliver of sun against her star-dappled backdrop. In the distance, Eggsy can just make out two identical peaks, rising in stark contrast to the sun’s muffled light.

 _Beautiful,_ he thinks. _Peter would love it._

That thought brings the pain of his wound into sharp focus, and if he could have gasped, he would have. It ripples through his body, biting into his ribcage and spreading to his limbs. His body goes rigid, and he grits his teeth, but he can’t take his eyes off the sun. As he sinks, his hands come into view, and he idly notices the ring on his left hand. The hole in his chest, achingly deep and empty, bleeds uselessly into the water, leaving a trail to the surface, as if he’s buoyed by a red string.

This isn’t the first time Eggsy has felt this ache in his chest.

 

The underworld of Coruscant isn’t kind to children. Spice-smugglers, bounty hunters, gamblers, and other such scum make their homes in the darkest parts of the lower levels. Natural light doesn’t reach there, and in the land of the lawless, public necessities such as lighting are rare and often don’t last long. Eggsy, just seven years old, knows this well; and yet, he finds himself sprinting through the dim, red-stained alleyways of level 74 as fast as his legs can take him. Arms pumping, polluted air stinging his lungs, anger momentarily stripped away by the adrenaline coursing through his body — it’s as free as he can be.

That is, until his foot catches a loose wire. His momentum jerks him to a halt, and Eggsy goes sprawling headlong. His head smacks into the crimson permacrete with force, but he makes no sound of pain, despite the throbbing in his brow and the metallic taste of blood that’s now filling his mouth. He’s got plenty of practice at staying silent, thanks to Dean.

The ache in his chest paralyzes him, spreading from his spine to his fingertips. Eggsy’s on his hands and knees, palms still smarting from the impact, gasping for breath. The ache gives way to a sob, which clamps his throat shut and makes his chest heave weakly.

He wants to call for his mother, but he doesn’t. Instead, he cries as silently as he can, allowing himself to feel the pain. He counts the spots he can feel it: hands, wrists, knees, head, chest. Chest, ribs, heart. _My heart hurts. It hurts, it hurts. Hurts._

“Young man,” comes a polite, airy voice, nothing like the thick accent of most underworlders. Eggsy goes stiff, not looking up. He can’t bring himself to reply, but pushes himself to his knees. Hot tears spill down his cheeks, and he wipes at them quickly with the back of his hands. Well-worn boots appear in his vision, and the man speaks again, gently: “Young man, are you hurt?”

“M’fine.” He still doesn’t look up, but remains very still. There aren’t many children on the lower levels for a reason; they’re sold, or eaten by the more carnivorous species of underworlders. He should be afraid, but right now, he can only feel the hurt.

The man kneels to eye level, but Eggsy stays fixated on his shoes. “Where are your parents?”

“Ain’ got none,” Eggsy replies in a voice that’s much more timid than he’d like it to be. He tries again, adding a scowl and puffing his chest. “An’ I ain’ need ‘em.”

“You’re an orphan?”

“I’on even know you,” Eggsy snaps, still refusing eye contact. “Go away.”

With a burst of bravery, he looks up, intending to fix a seedily-dressed bounty hunter or slave smuggler with a glare. The stranger is neither. Instead, beneath his robe, he’s clad in a proper upper-level robes, creme-colored and clean. The hilt of a lightsaber hangs from his belt. Eggsy’s expression goes slack with recognition, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

A soft, knowing smile spreads across the stranger’s face. “My name is Harry Hart,” he says. “I’m a Jedi.”

So that’s why he hadn’t felt afraid. Eggsy’s transfixed with Harry now, studying his face. His eyes glow with a kindness that Eggsy has only known from his mother. Though age is evident in Harry’s face, it shows itself in smile lines around his eyes and mouth. His mother had those, but Dean doesn’t. Eggsy sniffles, feeling suddenly more vulnerable. He wipes at his nose with his sleeve. “Eggsy,” he offers, pronouncing it slowly and carefully.

“Eggsy,” Harry repeats. “That’s a good name.”

Dean hates that name. Eggsy tilts his head, studying Harry for a lie. He can’t find one. Harry touches his own brow, then gestures to Eggsy’s. “You took a spill. Want me to clean that for you?”

Eggsy lifts a hand to feel the spot Harry had indicated. His fingers come away with a bit of blood. He nods without thinking, and Harry shifts to sit on the ground in front of him. He pulls a medkit from his utility belt, pouring some antiseptic onto a patch of gauze, and tips Eggsy’s chin to the side with a gentle touch. Had it been anyone else, Eggsy would have slapped his hand aside. But Harry has a voice like his mother’s, and Eggsy wants his mother more than anything right now. So he stays still, allowing Harry to dab the blood away and clean the cut.

“So you have no parents,” Harry asks again.

Eggsy thinks of the cheap headstone on level 78 that reads MICHELLE UNWIN, LOVING MOTHER & WIFE. YOU WILL BE MISSED. And then he thinks of Dean, who he’d left standing in the doorway, lips curled into a snarl, fist clenching the neck of a broken bottle and tongue sharp with curses for Eggsy’s clumsiness.  “Go on, then, get gone,” Dean had spat after him. “No one’s gonna miss you.”

“No,” he decides. “No parents.”

He carries that secret with him for the rest of his life, and vows never to return to level 74.

 

The Jedi Council isn’t keen on accepting him. The council room is brightly lit, closed in by full length panoramic windows that look out over Coruscant’s vast and beautiful upperworld. The clouds drift between the skyscrapers, golden and lazy, and Eggsy can’t take his eyes off the windows. He’s never seen the sky before. It’s a decent enough distraction for Harry, who stands before the 12 members of the council, arguing. He’s holding Eggsy’s hand gently, as if concerned that if he lets go, the boy will vanish.

“Strong in the Force, he is,” Yoda muses, watching Eggsy with a keen eye. “But carrying great weight, for one so young.”

“He’s not a good fit.” Fury watches Harry from the tops of his eyes, arms crossed and expression neutral. “You know that, Hart.”

Harry’s response is stiff. “No, I don’t.”

The Jedi uncrosses his arms, leaning forward in the chair to tip his head at Eggsy. “He’s not like us, and he’s not like the other younglings. He doesn’t belong here.”

“That’s prejudice,” Harry says sharply. “And I’m not fond of you judging my candidate before he’s been given a chance.”

“He’s _angry,_ ” Fury counters, lifting his brows.

That grabs Eggsy’s attention. He blinks at the master before him, brows knitting with confusion. _I’m not angry,_ he wants to protest. _How could I be angry? You don’t even know me._ The words die on his tongue as he realizes they’re _all_ looking at him, or rather, through him. He feels suddenly very small and inadequate, becoming sharply aware of the dirt smudging his face and his tattered clothing. It’s uncomfortable, being read like this; he can feel them looking into his mind, and though he can’t do anything to stop it, he wishes that they wouldn’t. He glances from master to master, hoping even one of them will voice their support, or at least smile at him. None of them do.

“As was I.” Harry stands tall, not willing to give an inch of ground. “My master took that chance with me.”

“Then he will be your responsibility,” Ki-Adi-Mundi says, steepling his fingers in his lap. “And if he cannot cooperate for the youngling training…”

“He’ll be sent home,” Fury finishes. “You might play favorites, Hart, but we can’t afford that. No luxuries are going to be taken with him.”

  
If Eggsy had come from any other background, he might be upset with the Council’s severity. But this is a chance, which is better than no chance, and Harry seems to believe in him, so it’s enough. Still, a weight settles on his shoulders.

When they exit the Council chamber, Harry kneels, gripping Eggsy by the arms. His voice is grave, eyes wide with sincerity. “Do you understand what’s expected of you?”

Eggsy nods slowly. Concern knits his features, and suddenly, prompted by fear, he blurts, “What if I can’t do it?

“You must do your best, Eggsy,” Harry says. “Your best is all I will ever ask of you.”

“No, I mean…” Eggsy hesitates, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t wanna go home.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes, expression relaxing. He gives Eggsy’s arm a gentle squeeze. “It won’t happen. I won’t allow it.”

Eggsy blinks up at him. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

 

The training itself proves to be just the sort of challenge Eggsy needed. Strength conditioning, mental stamina exercises, reflex development, and all manner of Jedi proficiency tests. It isn’t easy, and Eggsy doesn’t really feel at _home_ in the Temple, but it’s certainly better than level 74. After just a three months of youngling training, he’s stronger and healthier. Doesn’t miss his mother nearly as much. Still, the training _is_ difficult, and sometimes overwhelming. He doesn’t see Harry very often— Harry can’t take him on as an apprentice until he passes the youngling initiation ceremony, and that’s quite a ways off. His classmates, though welcoming, always seem to be at arm’s length, and more than once, Eggsy finds himself drowning in the currents of loneliness. Though numb, the ache is still there.

Eggsy, still blinking sleep from his eyes, migrates to his first session of the day with a throng of younglings, chattering happily to each other as they file inside. “Good morning, little ones,” rumbles Plo Koon’s voice from across the training room. The Kel Dor master stands with hands folded behind his back, expression unreadable from his eyeplates and antiox breath mask. The younglings shuffle into place, blinking up at him expectantly. Eggsy stays closer to the back of the classroom, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He’s the oldest in the class, and though the masters insist it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, he can’t help feeling ashamed by it.

“Today’s exercise will be about insight,” Plo continues. “I want you to imagine what it would be like if you could not see. Shut your eyes, and allow yourself to forget the shape of this room.”

Dozens of pairs of eyes drift shut, and Plo turns, pacing the room quietly, speaking as he goes. “Breathe. Become aware — not of that which is around you, but of yourself. Relax your mind.”

It’s quiet, filled only with the sounds of soft, shallow breathing, the beating of the children’s hearts, and the heavy, comforting weight of the Force. This exercise is fairly simple, and Eggsy has no trouble following along with it, allowing his surroundings to slip away.

Though his eyes are shut, the morning sunlight pours through the windows, basking him in golden warmth. Still, despite the brightness against his eyelids, there’s something dark in the pit of Eggsy’s mind, and he feels himself drawn towards it. It’s as if a jar of plasmarbles is scattered across a bed, and then something heavy is placed in the middle; the marbles roll towards the indentation in the mattress, and like so, Eggsy gravitates towards the dark spot in his mind.

As he gets closer, his surroundings grow darker, and he feels as if he’s moving faster towards it; like he’s falling. The golden haze of his mind is being quickly left behind, and it’s no longer warm here. A chill passes over Eggsy’s body, and he gives a quiet gasp of discomfort. He tries to scramble back towards the light, but the blackness is keeping him here — holding him down, suffocating him. It’s too much like the underworld, and Eggsy’s heart is pounding in his chest. Even if he wanted to open his eyes, he couldn’t.

“Frightening, isn’t it?” Plo asks, cutting through the silence and darkness. He sounds distant, echoing as if Eggsy’s in the center of a stadium, and Plo’s speaking from the bleachers. Eggsy gives a quiet whimper, nodding. In reality, Plo’s kneeling next to Eggsy, clawed hands folded in front of him. “This is the darkness your mind is capable of. This is your most raw and most vulnerable self.”

 _Awful,_ Eggsy wants to say, _it’s awful, and I never want to be here again._

A quiet hum. Plo can sense the fear rippling through the room, and he stands, addressing all the younglings. “But this darkness is also your most valuable teacher. Would someone like to tell me what darkness is?”

Ahsoka, a young Togruta girl next to Eggsy, speaks up confidently. “The absence of light, master.”

“Correct, Ahsoka,” Plo says, sounding like he’s smiling beneath the mask. “And the absence of light is something that you should be neither afraid, nor ashamed of. It is simply there to tell you what you need.”

The lecture doesn’t give Eggsy much comfort. He hasn’t been to this part of his mind before, and the empty expanse of blackness builds itself into something horrifically familiar; the lower levels, vast and unforgiving, everything permacrete and wire and durasteel and _cold_. And with this make-believe underworld comes a wave of fears that Eggsy hasn’t felt for months; being buried alive by a structural collapse of the city, being trafficked for the slave market, losing his mother again, getting lost in the maze of alleys and streets, Dean. Dean, of course, stands most prominently among those fears, and Eggsy feels a sob clamp his throat shut.

Plo speaks again, voice smooth and gentle, echoing through the younglings’ sensory deprivation. “The blackness is a blank space that allows the Force to communicate with you. Now, all of you: staying in your void, and without opening your eyes, reach out for what it is that you need. Ask the darkness what it wants, and allow the Force to move through you and guide you to the answer.”

Happy to take his attention off the horrible setting his mind has constructed, Eggsy focuses on the void itself, rather than the images it constructed. His brows furrow with effort, looking for something in the blackness.

 _What do you want,_ he demands. The void responds with deafening silence. Eggsy can’t hear the other younglings shuffling around — some of them wander the room, eyes shut, bumping into each other on their paths to Master Plo, or to the table of training sabers that Plo has carefully left in reach. Eggsy, however, hears nothing. In his mind’s eye, he stands on an empty, blank canvas. _What do you want!?_

Still, nothing. Tears threaten to spill, and Eggsy squeezes his eyes, trying to keep it together.

Quieter, as if asking a child: _What do you need?_

Something flickers in the distance. How hadn’t he noticed that before? Eggsy tries to move towards it in his mind, but he doesn’t get any closer. The movement reaches his limbs, stirring him into slow, cautious movements. As he moves closer, the light gets brighter, growing into a soft blue, and overtaking more of the darkness. Eggsy’s feet drag against the durasteel floor, though he isn’t aware that he’s even going anywhere, and his hands stretch out towards the light, which is now growing closer of its own accord. Eggsy wonders what in the world it could be, and his curiosity only makes him move more urgently. Closer, closer— almost there—-

His hands meet warm skin, and his world bursts into hues of blue and gold.

The cold void slips away, and Eggsy’s eyes flutter open. In his hands are another set of hands — small and pale, like his own, with fingers interlacing for a tighter grip. He blinks, and looks up. It’s a boy, with the morning sun dancing on his curls, wearing a tunic that’s too large for him and staring up at Eggsy with big brown eyes. Another youngling, Eggsy realizes, and he tilts his head, confused. He’s seen how this exercise goes— you’re supposed to wind up with your training saber, or with the Master. Never with another person.

The boy hesitates, a little frightened. “Hi...?”

“Hi,” Eggsy answers slowly, as if dazed. Neither of them drop their hands — they can’t take their eyes off each other, examining the details of the other’s face, as if it’s the last time they’ll ever see each other. For some reason, Eggsy doesn’t feel the need for an introduction. He blinks, brows furrowing, allowing the name to slip off his tongue, unbidden: “...Peter?”

Peter nods, delighted, and then cants his head to the side, as if listening to a whisper in his ear. A hesitant smile, and he stifles a laugh. “Eggsy,” he giggles.

“Yeah,” Eggsy says, mirroring Peter’s grin. “That’s me.”

“You’re gold,” Peter says abruptly. “In my head? In the Force. It’s pretty.”

Heat rises to Eggsy’s cheeks, and his expression goes a little slack. He stammers, unsure of how to take the compliment, and Peter giggles again. “And you’re shy.”

“Not shy!” Eggsy protests. “I’m not shy. And I’m not pretty either.”

“Are too.” Peter lifts his chin. Their hands are still suspended between them, fingers locked together, keeping them close. “How old are you?”

“Seven.”

“Oh, I’m gonna be seven.”

“But you ain’t yet?” Eggsy lifts his brows, now smug. “I am, but you ain’t.”

“I’m _gonna_ be!” Peter whines, and gives Eggsy a slight push with his hands, but doesn’t let go; it has a rubber band effect. Eggsy steps backwards, and then pulls Peter forward to cover the gap. Peter laughs loudly, and Eggsy yanks one hand away to cover Peter’s mouth.

“Quiet!” he says, jerking his head towards the other younglings with wide eyes. “You’ll get us in trouble, laughing like that.”

Peter stays still, blinking, his free hand suspended in midair. A smile spreads across his face beneath Eggsy’s hand, and Eggsy, desperately trying to keep a straight face, hisses a few more half-giggled warnings to Peter, who still has a tight grip on Eggsy’s other hand.

The two are too wrapped up in bickering pleasantly to notice Plo watching them from across the room, arms crossed and smile hidden beneath the mask.

 

No matter the weather outside, Harry leaves his window open, or at least unlocked. When lounging in his quarters, he’s always glancing out the viewports for the familiar glint of gold and red, or hoping to hear the soft clank of metal touching down on the balcony platform. It’s not often that his favorite Avenger pays him a visit, but when Tony Stark does come, Harry leaves a mark on his holocalendar. Lately, the marks have growing more and more frequent. He’s not complaining.

Their relationship is, perhaps, the most private thing Harry has ever had the privilege of having. The Jedi discourage personal possessions outside of the traditional weaponry and attire. Harry, a sentimentalist at heart, does his best to keep what possessions he does have a secret from the other knights. Books are kept under the floorboards, butterfly collections are sold upon completion, and the single picture of Tony is kept face down in Harry’s nightstand drawer. This doesn’t keep Harry from saying goodnight to the empty space in his bed, and somewhere, halfway across the galaxy, Tony will feel a wave of warmth wash over him, knowing Harry’s thinking of him.

Yes, love is forbidden, but Harry supposes that he’s followed the rules studiously enough all his life to be allowed to break just this one. Or two, really, considering the unspoken tension between the Avengers and the Jedi. It’s a massive conflict of interests, and a scandal that neither of them would hear the end of, should they be found out. The Avengers have _never_ gotten along with the Jedi, and Harry supposes they never will — if the Avengers even last that long. Their methods are reckless, unprepared, and chaotic. They’re vigilantes, and the Republic is just a nudge away from legally condemning the Avengers and having them arrested.

Thankfully, the spacefaring superheroes rarely intervene with Jedi business. But, just as thankfully, sometimes they _do,_ and one of those sometimes is what brought Harry and Tony together. Harry is content to live with the absence of Tony; in a way, it’s comforting. He’d rather have something out of reach than have nothing at all. And it gives him something to look forward to — wondering each night if Tony will stop by this week, bringing some new and exotic specimen of Outer Rim butterfly for Harry’s studies, with that coy smile on his lips and a glimmer brighter than Bespin in his eyes.

Today, though, Tony doesn’t come through the window. Harry has to do a double take up from his records analysis, not quite believing his eyes; but no, there he is, sweeping into the Jedi Temple in a three piece Corellian suit that looks more expensive than two speeders combined. Harry’s heart skips a beat, and he excuses himself hastily, glancing around before crossing the Temple corridor to intercept Tony.

“Can I do something for you?” Harry says, feigning ignorance. Tony half turns, and Harry doesn’t miss a glimmer of what Harry hopes is happiness. A coy smile spreads across the smaller man’s face.

“Yes, actually,” Tony says, nonchalant, stuffing his hand in his pocket. “I’m— totally lost, here. Got more halls in this place than you have laws.”

Harry has to stifle his the warmth of laughter that’s bubbling up inside his chest, instead settling for the ghost of a smile. “And are you going anywhere in particular, mister...?”

“Stark,” Tony replies, eyes twinkling. “And yes, I am. Where do you keep the, uh, kids? Not cryofreeze, I hope.”

Harry blanches, taken aback; he had expected Tony was here to see _him,_ not the younglings. He’d already been prepared to take separate routes to his quarters, had thought up two or three excuses to give Fury for skipping the Council meeting tonight. “I’ll— take you there,” he says, brows knitting. One hand settles on the small of Tony’s back for a split second, encouraging him down the corridor. “This way.”

When they’re out of earshot and sufficiently down the corridor, their pace slows to a saunter. Harry lowers his voice. “What’s going on? Not something with the Guardians again, is it?”

“What? No. God, no. I really am here to see a kid,” Tony says, and then bumps Harry gently with his shoulder. “Don’t pout. Was going to surprise you for dinner afterwards.”

Harry catches Tony’s momentum, keeping him pinned to his side for a moment with an arm around Tony’s waist. He presses a kiss to Tony’s cheek, and then withdraws, glancing behind them. Nobody there— safe. Probably should have looked before.

“Wait.” Harry connects the dots suddenly, and frowns down at Tony. “It’s not— do you have…?”

“He’s not mine.” Tony shakes his head, and Harry deflates, relieved.

“Then who is it?”

“I picked him up off a Separatist outpost near Geonosis a few months ago.” Tony’s expression darkens. “There were a dozen or so kids getting experimented on for god knows what. Took the whole team to destroy the base and get them out. Mine was— Force sensitive.” He glances up at Harry for emphasis, and then looks away again. “You can imagine how much fun the Separatists had with that.” Tony’s eyes glaze over, sickened by the memory. His voice lowers, husky and angry. “He was hooked up to so many damn machines, Harry, I…”

Harry feels sick to his stomach. Force sensitives, especially those untrained, were always at greater risk of greater pain. Tony shakes his head, casting away the thought. His brows are still knitted into a scowl, and his voice solemn. “We took all of them back to their parents, but he didn’t have any. And with the enhancements  they did to him, I figured Peter would be safer here, with you. His aunt lives in the upper levels, anyway, so she’s looking after him.”

“Pause,” Harry says, stopping midstride. “Peter?”

“Yeah, that’s his name.” Tony keeps walking, but keeps his eyes on Harry, who takes two quick steps to catch up. “Why? You know him?”

“I mean, I don’t know him personally,” Harry says. “But he’s got a Force bond with my padawan.”

“A who— what— he has a what?”

“Force bond.” Harry bites back the _it’s what we have_ that’s on the tip of his tongue, waving his hand for an explanation. “When two souls are connected through the Force. It’s— rare. Very rare, and very powerful, if it comes about naturally, and both are Force sensitive. The Council hasn’t seen a Force bond for a century or more.”

Tony eyes Harry up, fighting off a smirk. “...Uh huh.”

“What?”

“You and I got one of those?”

Harry chokes on his response, brows raising. “I— well—- we do, in a way. Not the same sort.” Tony hums expectantly, prompting Harry to continue. “It’s one of the reasons love is forbidden. My soul is connected to yours, though not in the same way theirs is.” He hesitates, searching for the words. “Your soul and mine grew together, over time. Perhaps we gravitated towards each other because we were meant to be together, but it’s different between two Force sensitives.”

They come to a stop outside the youngling’s training room, and Tony’s eyes flick over Harry’s face, studying him as he speaks. The sunlight dances softly on Harry’s features, pooling in his eyes and turning them a honey gold. Harry’s unaware of Tony’s examination of him, speaking quietly.  “With you and I, the Force _strengthens_ our relationship— at least on my end. I’m— I don’t know if you’ve felt it, or—”

“I’ve felt it,” Tony interjects. His lips tug into a soft smile. “Just thought I was going crazy.”

A huff of laughter from Harry, and Tony stands on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Harry’s lips, catching the laugh before it’s complete. It’s a split second kiss, but still, Harry’s eyes flutter shut, fingers curling into a fistful of Tony’s coat before Tony breaks away.

As they pull apart, the door to the training room opens, and Peter’s head pops out from the opening. Eggsy’s shadowing him, peering over the top of the younger’s head. Peter’s eyes go round, giving an overjoyed squeak of “Tony!” and darting towards the pair. Tony drops to his knees, smile spreading wide as he opens his arms . Peter barrels into him, throwing his arms around Tony’s neck.

“Whoa— hey, take it easy, squirt,” Tony laughs, steadying himself with one hand and wrapping the other arm around Peter. “Miss me?”

“Always miss you,” Peter mumbles, burying himself in Tony’s grip and smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. Harry watches, warmth bubbling into a smile at the two of them. He suspects Tony will be around much more often now, and Harry allows himself to be just a little selfish about it. A small kindness from the universe, he supposes.  

 

The Force bond doesn’t stay a secret long. Plo had figured it out right away, and, practically beaming from beneath the antiox mask, announced to the council that for the first time in a century, they would be training a _pair_ of Jedi. This was met with a variety of reactions; Fury’s displeasure was less than subtle, but Yoda’s countenance had lifted with excitement. “A challenge, they will be,” he had said, glancing from master to master with a glint in his eye. “Rare, it is, and with value, should they be treated. Difficult, yes, but impossible, no.”  

The boys prove to be inseparable after encountering each other in the Force; wherever Eggsy goes, Peter’s close behind. The two leave a trail of trouble in their wake; a destroyed shipment of speeder equipment, the de-sleeving of _all_ of Master Fisto’s robes, and the collapse of three shelves of Jedi texts from a game of tag. Plo jokingly compares them to a set of lothkittens, constantly wandering into trouble and needing to be watched at all times. The Masters attempt to compensate for the two’s unavoidable collateral damage by separating the two and putting them on different class schedules, but that does almost nothing, and lasts for less than a month. Peter’s anxiety worsens without Eggsy around, and Eggsy gets aggressive when forced to train without his friend. All of Eggsy’s anger, Peter replaces with love; and all of Peter’s hurt, Eggsy replaces with courage. So the Masters allow them to stay together, and cross their fingers that the collateral damage they cause is worth the healing for each other.

Though neither of them are incredibly experienced in the Force, it doesn’t take Peter very long to figure out how to stumble into Eggsy’s mind, glowing blue and practically smothering Eggsy’s golden presence out of excitement. When they’re together, the Force comes naturally, and they have no trouble following instructions; that is, if they don’t get too distracted during the lesson. Depending on the teacher, Eggsy and Peter are either the star pupils, or they’re put on time out at least twice each class.

Outside of lessons, they do everything together; eating, playing, sparring, training. Peter goes home to May on the weekends, and he brings Eggsy with him so regularly that May invests in a bunk bed. She reminds Eggsy of his mom, in a way, always smiling and checking up on the two boys. There are pictures of Peter’s parents on the mantle, but Peter doesn’t recognize them, and the council doubts Peter ever will. Those memories are gone. Perhaps for the better, too; without his grief to hold him back, he’s likely to be stronger and more disciplined in the Force.

In just a few short months, Eggsy finds himself in the center of a very odd and makeshift family of seven. Saturday — dinner night — is the best day of the week. Peter goes home to May, and Eggsy trails along with Harry in his wake. Tony, of course, comes over to check on Peter, gladly accepting a few hours spent with Harry as well. And Plo, who’s more than a little attached to Peter, can’t even _have_ human food, but it doesn’t stop him from coming over for dinner with his own dish and little Ahsoka in tow. What once had been empty is now full to the point of nearly crowded, but even in May’s cramped little dining room, with the clamor of conversation and the scraping of extra chairs being pulled up to the table, Eggsy’s gaze always wanders back to Peter. The world is so much better in blue.

 

The clock turns at a remarkable speed. Months go by, and Eggsy and Peter approach their initiate trials with a few other of their youngling classmates. They pass with flying colors — achieving some of the best marks that the Academy has ever given. Master Plo takes Peter as his apprentice, and as agreed, Harry takes Eggsy. As their new robes are presented to them, Peter struggles to keep a straight face, but Eggsy’s eyeing him with a grin. _Don’t laugh, Parker._

Peter gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head, fighting a smile. _We’re graduating, and you’re trying to make me laugh? Can you shut up for two seconds?_

Eggsy’s laughter ricochets through Peter’s mind, and he looks away, shoulders lifting with the silent giggling. _Nope._

When the ceremony comes to a close, they’re both beaming with pride, escorted away by their new masters to move into the new _padawan_ quarters. Ranking up means a lot of changes; less visits to May, less lecturing and more _real_ missions, and the construction of a real lightsaber. The first thing Peter does is come over to leave a set of his robes in Eggsy’s dresser and steal one of Eggsy’s to take back to his own room. “For emergencies,” he says, grinning. Over time, one set turns to two, two turns to four, and then Eggsy clears a whole drawer for Peter, to the Council’s chagrin. They’re old enough now that, in the eyes of the ever-watchful Masters, they don’t _need_ to share the space anymore.

They do try to stop, too, but here rises one of the problems of the Force bond. Even on nights where they aren’t with each other in person — Eggsy sprawled on the bed watching a holovid while Peter uses his back as a table to study the Jedi texts — even when they’re apart, their minds are tangled together in a haze of gold and blue. Eggsy loves seeing the world through Peter’s aura, but dreaming in blue isn’t for him. Peter’s dreams are only ever nightmares, and Eggsy doesn’t like being privy to them. Peter doesn’t remember what happened to him, and even if he did, Eggsy wouldn’t pry. He knows enough from the glimpses of subconscious memory from Peter’s dreams.

Tonight, the nightmare is bad. Eggsy finds himself in a room, all blacks and greys, nearly indiscernible from the harsh light in his eyes. When he tries to sit up, he finds that his wrists and legs are strapped down. He reaches out with the Force, trying to undo the restraints, but the Force isn’t there. He’s alone, besides the medical droids watching him from the edge of the room, and a sense of cold dread settles in the pit of his stomach. He catches sight of the machinery surrounding the table he’s pinned to, and traces each one of them to himself; his mouth is covered by an oxy mask, there’s an IV in his left arm, and a dozen electrode probes covering his chest. Some sort of bandage is covering the left side of his ribcage, and there’s a few blinking lights from it; his stomach turns, realizing that the bandage is covering something _inside_ him. In the beam of light, a mechanical arm whirrs quietly, displaying the syringe attached to it. As Eggsy watches, the syringe fills with a bright blue liquid. The syringe’s needle is abnormally thick and long, glinting menacingly in the light. Panic strikes him, hard, and he writhes again, trying to get free of the restraints and _away_ from the needle, but he can’t. He can’t, and the arm shifts, adjusting slowly to position itself just beneath his ribs.

 _Just a dream,_ he begs, heart pounding. _It’s just a dream. Wake up. Wake up! Wake up, Peter!_

The arm lowers, and pain rips through his belly as the needle pierces his skin. Eggsy gives himself a push with the Force, tearing himself out of the dream and into consciousness with a hoarse shout. He sits straight up in bed, slicked with sweat and panting for breath. The pain fades quickly, and he feels at his stomach with a trembling hand. No scar, no wound. Just a dream.

He doesn’t give himself time to recover. He’s awake, but Peter’s still dreaming, so Eggsy shoves the covers off of him and is out the door in a second, running for Peter’s room. The halls are abandoned at this time of night, thankfully, so there’s nobody to stop Eggsy or give him a questioning look. When he bursts into Peter’s room, the younger is stiff as a board, crying quietly in his sleep.

“Hey,” Eggsy says, grabbing Peter by the shoulders and shaking him. Peter doesn’t respond, and Eggsy’s voice sharpens. “Hey! Peter, wake up!”

No response. Eggsy shuts his eyes and retreats to the center of his mind, seeking out Peter’s presence. It’s muscle memory by now, and it takes him no time at all to find Peter’s shivering blue haze. Eggsy scoops it up, cradling it gently and encasing it with his own, hoping to smother Peter’s dream and bring his friend to consciousness, or at least give him some sort of lifeline.

_Wake up. I’m right here. You need to wake up, Peter, please—_

Peter’s eyes snap open, and he inhales raggedly. Eggsy deflates with relief. It takes Peter a moment to process everything, but Eggsy doesn’t give him the time. He pulls Peter upright and checks him over for any physical damage. His eyes don’t miss the scar just beneath Peter’s ribs, and his gut twists. Not a dream, then, but a memory. Anger flares in him for a brief moment, but Peter’s shaking, and the anger is quickly forgotten. Eggsy leans forward, wrapping his arms around Peter as tightly as he can.

“You’re okay,” he breathes. “It’s okay. You’re not there. You’re here, and I’m here. We’re okay.”

Peter whimpers something indiscernible, burying his face in Eggsy’s neck and hiccuping for breath. His hands grip little fistfuls of Eggsy’s shirt, and his presence clings to Eggsy’s like he’s scared to let go, for fear of going back to the nightmare. “Don’t go,” Peter manages between breaths, voice shuddering and quiet with terror. “Please— don’t go.”

It would be easy for Eggsy to feel vengeful, and were it not for Peter in his arms right now, he’d be angry, as scared children sometimes are. But now, all he feels is Peter, and that anger is washed away, forgotten in the tide of Peter’s fear. Eggsy’s voice is soft. “Ain’t going nowhere, Pete. I got you. You’re never going back there as long as I’ve got you. I promise.”

This promise will turn out to be the worst lie Eggsy has ever told. But for now, they believe it, and belief is enough for children.

 

Their masters keep them busy; so busy, in fact, that they hardly notice themselves grow up. With training and diplomatic missions and all other sorts of responsibilities, the haze of childhood is quickly left behind, and their lives come into sharp focus. Both Plo and Harry believe in allowing the boys’ Force bond to thrive, so more often than not, the four of them will take missions together, or one master will allow both padawans to tag along, rather than just his own.

Just after his fourteenth birthday, Peter discovers his powers. After collapsing during training, Plo rushes him to medbay; he can’t even get on the comms to tell Harry before Eggsy bursts in, going right to Peter’s side without a word. Harry sends Tony a transmission, and Tony shows up not even twenty minutes later with Banner in tow. Bruce looks Peter over, and concludes that Peter’s symptoms are a result of the Separatists’ radioactive experimentation on Peter, and aren’t fatal in the slightest; it had just been a sensory overload, which led to an anxiety attack. Though the words are a relief to everyone in the room, it still takes Eggsy quite a while to release the terror gripping him at the sight of Peter in a hospital bed.

After that incident, Plo carries a smaller antiox mask for Peter, should it happen again. Though the mask is designed to help the Kel Dor breathe, its eyeslits filter out enough of the raw visual input to serve as a sensory dampening unit. With the discovery of Peter’s new skills, Plo’s focus shifts to discovering the extent of his powers and training Peter to master them. Tony, of course, designs a few upgrades to the antiox goggles and Peter’s handcrafted webshooters. They’re subtle enough to wear with his robes, and one of the few personal possessions that the Council actually allows Peter.

With closer proximity to each other because of their padawans’ connection, Plo and Harry become good friends. Plo, ever observant, does not miss Harry’s infrequent absences — always spent when Tony comes to Coruscant to check in on May and Peter. The pieces aren’t difficult to put together, and Plo, knowing full well what the council would have to say on that matter, takes special care to give Harry his space and keep the secret to himself. Plo even ends up saving Tony’s life once on Alderaan. It costs him an antiox mask and two weeks in medbay, but Plo waves this off dismissively. If it were someone Plo cared about, Harry would have done the same. For Harry’s trust and friendship, it’s a small price to pay.

The boys often spend their free time with Ahsoka, who keeps both of them on their toes. Outside of sparring sessions, the three occasionally get themselves into trouble — using the Force to get themselves into places they don’t belong, testing the limits of Peter’s newfound powers, seeking out bad news and giving their masters headaches. But really, who could expect them to know better? Jedi or not, they’re still teenagers, with bright futures ahead of them and not a thing to fear.

 

And then the war.

 

It rises like the dawn over Coruscant; slowly, unnoticed at first, and then all at once the sun crests the horizon, and the Jedi realize that they are much more involved than they had previously believed themselves to be. The Separatists, emboldened by their newly-minted droid army, fling themselves across the galaxy, looking for any and all planets to nest themselves in. The Republic responds in turn, enlisting the Jedi to spearhead their retaliation. The Knights, backed by the Grand Army of clones, rush into the war headlong, hoping to undo the Separatists’ damage before it’s too late.

Among these Jedi are Eggsy and Peter, fresh-faced and eager to join the fight. The excitement of war to young soldiers is like nectar to butterflies; they flock, all broad smiles and proud words, hoping for a bit of the glory. And, like all young soldiers, their wings will be torn off by the flowers which turn out to be thorns.

But not yet. For now, they march into war, side by side and with their chins held high. The thrum of the Republic’s war machine is stirring to life, with a thousands of hearts beating in unison and the Force flowing through them; they can’t lose. If anything, the boys find themselves more excited than they’ve ever been. Force forgive them; they’re too young to know.

The Avengers and the Guardians are just as involved in the war as the Jedi. The competition is forgotten; heroes and knights fight together, setting aside their previous grievances to drive the Separatists back. For Harry and Tony, this means every goodbye means more than the last. The same war, different missions, different threats. Seeing each other less, appreciating every moment more. But still— even when they can’t see each other in person, Harry takes the time to send Tony a transmission every night.

At first, the council doesn’t take much care to allow Peter and Eggsy to stay together during the war. Their priority is keeping the padawans with their masters, and the Jedi ranks are spread thin right from the start. This doesn’t make the boys grow apart — they’re always with each other in the Force. But it doesn’t do much to dampen Peter’s disappointment when he goes to Eggsy’s room only to find his bed long since empty.

Plo’s soldiers, the Wolfpack, take a keen liking to Peter right away, trusting the padawan’s judgment as much as they trust Plo’s. The clones are loyal, fierce in their resolve, and undyingly protective; especially of those Jedi that show them kindness. Peter adores the soldiers, often trying to join in their camaraderie and badly imitating them in an attempt to impress them and be accepted. It’s endearing, and they take to him immediately. When Plo has his back turned, Comet teaches Peter a number of foul words — or at least, creative ways to use the ones Peter already knows. The first time Peter calls a droideka a _kriff-brained motherfucker_ earns a sharp glare from Master Plo, and a few victorious whoops and cackles from the Wolfpack.

After their first mission with him, Harry’s men decorate their armor with butterflies of various sorts, always a soft blue and unique to each man. His unit, the 57th, often gets a decent amount of friendly bullying for being soft. Harry does his best to pick rescue and relief missions, rather than active combat missions. But the Council knows how good of a fighter Harry is, and overturns his requests more often than not. The butterflies don’t help much with the 57th’s gunshy reputation, but it’s war, and the reputation changes more often than the Mandalorian tides. When they have to, they’re just as vicious as any of their brothers. Their medic, Fluster, comes back with blood splattered on the outspread butterfly wings across his chest and a grim expression on his face. It gets around that the 57th massacred one hundred and thirty five Trandoshans over a border dispute, and suddenly their reputation earns them murmurs of respect in mess, rather than snickers.

 

War ages the boys fast. Eggsy finds himself more confident, more at ease among Harry’s soldiers, grinning and exchanging jokes with them during battle. The Council keeps the 57th and its two Jedi on the front lines for months at a time. Yes, Peter’s in Eggsy’s mind, and yes, they can stay in touch, but it’s not the same. It’s never the same, and Eggsy still wakes up from the raw terror of Peter’s nightmares; only now, they’re fresh from the horrors of war. Eggsy’s watched himself die in Peter’s mind more than once, and each night without Peter by his side, Eggsy’s chest aches a little more.

So, when the Council calls Eggsy back for a specialized mission alongside Peter, his heart nearly leaps out of his chest. His goodbyes to Harry and the men are hasty, and he’s loaded on the freighter and gone as soon as he can. Peter has no idea he’s coming back— he’s felt that much out in Peter’s mind, and he can barely contain himself on the flight back. Lightspeed has never been so agonizingly slow.

After twenty minutes of Eggsy preening — pacing, glancing in the mirror, smoothing out his robes — the pilot, Hef, glances over his shoulder, brows raised. “You got a date or something, sir? You look more nervous than a Hutt at a buffet.”

“A date?” Eggsy echoes, tilting his head.

Hef laughs. “Geez, kid.” When Eggsy stays expectantly silent, he shakes his head. “If you like someone, you take ‘em out to a restaurant or a holoflick, something like that, something where you spend a lot of time with ‘em, maybe hold their hand.”

“I know what it _is,_ Hef.”

“Well? You got one?”

A moment of silence. His first mission with Peter as his only partner— it _could_ be a date, couldn’t it? They might hold hands if they have to run. Definitely going to be more time than usual together. After a moment, Eggsy nods. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Hef nods, returning his attention to the ship. As he drops out of hyperspace, Coruscant’s light-littered surface looms in the viewport. The clones know very well about the Jedi’s rules regarding personal relationships, so a sly smile tugs at his mouth. “Mum’s the word, sir. And you look fine, but if you won’t if you keep rubbin’ holes in your pants like that. —Coming in for landing in five.”

Eggsy lifts his hands from his knees — he _had_ been rubbing them. Nervous. _Why am I nervous? It’s just Peter._ Well— Peter, plus eight months of separation.

When he steps out of the freighter and onto the landing platform, Peter’s a hundred feet away, loading a few crates onto his starfighter for the mission. Eggsy watches him perk up, sensing the familiar shift in the Force, and Eggsy stays where he is, waiting for Peter to notice him. When Peter scans the dock hopefully, his eyes land on Eggsy, and gives a shout of joy.

Peter discards his work and rushes towards him. Eggsy, already running, meets him in the middle. The two nearly knock each other over, but Eggsy uses their momentum to wrap his arms around Peter’s waist and lift him off the ground for a brief moment, spinning him once before putting him back down. The two are smiling so hard it hurts, examining each other while laughing and babbling excitedly, talking over each other in an effort to get all the words out.

“You’re back— you didn’t tell me you were coming back—”

“I know, I wanted to surprise you—”

“—how was the post? Why are you back? Are you hurt? Did Harry get captured, is everything okay? God, you have such bad timing, I’m literally about to leave— what happened to your hair? And you’re taller—”

“Slow down— Pete, slow down, I can’t fuckin’ understand you— I’m not taller, you’re just short, you’ve always been short—”

“I’m not _short!_ ” Peter pleads that, and then his expression suddenly shifts, and his eyes well with tears. “Why— why did you come back _now?_ I’m leaving right now, Eggsy, I’m— God, you’re such a dick—-”

“Hey!” Eggsy grabs Peter by the shoulders, giving him a little shake. “Shut up and let me be happy to see you, huh? We’re going _together._ ”

That gets Peter’s attention. He blanches. “What?”

“The mission. It’s _our_ mission.” Eggsy gestures to Peter’s starfighter. “We’re both going, so I hope you packed some shit for me, too.”

Peter, overwhelmed, bursts into half-crying laughter. “Yeah,” he sniffles, feeling a little pathetic. “Yeah, I did, just didn’t know it’d be you.”

 

It takes three years for the war to end. In that time, the Council decides to let Eggsy and Peter continue doing missions together. They’re better together, and some of the strongest Jedi that the Council has ever seen; though many of the Masters can sense their relationship, they don’t dispute it. Not now. It’s not the time. With the Separatists pushing back and the galaxy being ravaged by the destruction of the war, Eggsy and Peter’s closeness is a beacon in the darkness, giving hope to the soldiers who serve under them and keeping each other strong.

When Peter turns eighteen, they’re officially given the titles of Jedi Knights, and are released from their Masters’ tutelage. Their missions are now more dangerous, with more responsibility, more margin for error. More chance that they don’t come home at all. For this reason, the time they spend together becomes more precious, and the boys don’t waste a single moment with each other. “There’s no time like the present,” Peter says brightly, “and there’s no color like gold.”

“Funny,” Eggsy laughs. “I kinda prefer blue.”

In that time, they grow only closer. They share their first kiss bathed the blue lights and the dull hum of an empty troop carrier; it’s scared, unpracticed, just a little clumsy, and Peter can taste the blood from Eggsy’s freshly cut lip. This one says _thank you._ They do better with the second kiss, under the wing of Eggsy’s starfighter, where they spend the night counting the Republic supply ships as they appear in the Umbaran sky.  This one says _I’m glad I’m not alone_ . And the third kiss is, perhaps, their best yet, in the hangar before Peter leaves for his first — and last — solo mission. This one says _I love you._

As Peter walks away, helmet in hand, Eggsy’s heart sinks. “The Force will be with you,” he calls, somehow hoping that this will make Peter stay. But Peter just turns to give Eggsy one last smile over his shoulder.

“I know you will.”

Peter doesn’t come back from that mission. In fact, very few Jedi come back at all. Though Peter had been sent to the mission alone, Tony had joined him, toting along a similarly armored suit for Peter; meanwhile, Eggsy had gone to join Harry on the front again. It was only supposed to be a few days — things were wrapping up. The war was coming to a close, and the Republic supposedly had the Separatists in a checkmate.

That didn’t make the individual battles any less intense. Against an unending volley of laserfire, sporting the suit Tony had made for him, Peter pushes forward with his troops. Overhead, Tony takes out the larger enemies and protects the regiment’s right and left flanks. He’s getting battered pretty hard; he’s the only airborne unit, so it’s damn easy for the Separatist tanks to take potshots at him. Every so often, he looks down to check on the Jedi. Peter is almost always fine, golden saber flashing in broad arcs, staving off the shots taken at him and his men. The battle isn’t easy, but there isn’t any immediate danger. They should be fine.

And then, without warning, the clones’ comm feed crackles to life, commanding an order that Tony’s never heard of before. A chill runs down his spine.

“JARVIS, query on order sixty six,” Tony says, and JARVIS has the files pulled up before the words are out of Tony’s mouth.

“The clones are wired to turn on their Jedi counterparts if given the command, sir,” JARVIS replies, urgency weighing his tone. Tony’s heart goes cold. The implication is obvious. Peter.

“Kid,” Tony calls, voice rattling through the comms’ static. “Peter, look behind you! Get out of there!”

Peter can’t hear him. His comms are broken. He can’t see the half a dozen clones with their blasters trained on his back, but he _can_ hear the dangerously unnatural whine of Tony’s repulsors at close range. Before he can get a chance to turn and look, he feels metal slam into his shoulders and upper spine, and his feet are suddenly off the ground. Metal arms wrap around his chest, lifting him in the air. The impact is strong enough to knock the wind from him, and his lightsaber is knocked from his grip and left on the ground below. He squirms a little.

“Hey _!_ Put me—-”

“We need to go,” Tony interrupts. Though the suit’s speakers make his voice monotone and tinny, Peter can hear the urgency in his tone. “Shit went south. You’re not safe here.”

Peter’s legs flail a little bit in the air, and he writhes in Tony’s grip. “What do you— _mean?_ I don’t understand!”

“I mean that the—”

Tony doesn’t get a chance to finish. White hot pain rips through his chest. He gives a gasp, eyes snapping wide open, and the suit goes dead. Peter falls from his grip, and the two plummet towards the ground. Peter’s shout for Tony is torn away by the wind, and he scrambles to use the Force to catch both of them, but he’s falling head over heels and he can’t find Tony. He can’t find Tony and he can’t find the ground and he’s falling and everything hurts and—

He gives a shove outwards with the Force, hoping it’ll buoy him away from the ground, and somehow, it does. He still lands harshly, rolling for a few feet before coming to a stop. It takes him a moment to gather himself and attempt to move. His back feels like it’s on fire, and he gives a quiet whimper as he tries to push himself up onto his hands and knees. His arms give way, and he collapses back into the dirt. The shot had gone between them, searing the skin from Peter’s back, but Tony’s suit had taken most of the hit. A few feet away from him, the suit itself rests in a crater in the ground, in a smoking heap. The faceplate is dark.

“Tony,” Peter chokes out, trying to pull himself towards the wreckage. Everything is spinning, and if he’s not careful, he’ll throw up, but all Peter can think is _I should have caught him. I should have caught him—_

The wreckage stirs to life, and the chest plate disassembles itself unsteadily, whining with the movements. Tony himself moves to assist the suit’s movements, pulling bits and pieces of the suit off of himself and discarding them. When the faceplate comes off, he’s wide-eyed and bleeding from more than one cut, heaving painfully for breath. The reactor embedded in his chest flickers. It’s cracked. Blood is pooling in his mouth, and Tony doesn’t need JARVIS to tell him that he needs immediate medical care.

Still, despite Tony’s horrible condition, Peter’s face lights up at the sight of him _alive._ “You’re okay,” he says, moving closer with a new urgency. “I’m s- sorry, I couldn’t catch you, I couldn’t..”

He trails off. Tony’s eyes aren’t on him. They’re focused on the treeline behind Peter, wide and panicked.

“Peter,” Tony says carefully. “I just saved your ass, so you owe me a favor, alright?”

Peter’s brows furrow, but he nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I need that favor right now.”

“Mr. Stark—”

“ _Right_ now,” Tony snaps, voice strained with pain and urgency. “Okay? Can you do it for me right now?”

“I don’t know if I can, but I’ll— I’ll try.”

Tony’s eyes settle on Peter, and his voice gets quiet. “Stay down.”

“...what?”

“Whatever happens, you play dead, Peter.”

Peter feels suddenly sick to his stomach as he realizes what Tony means. Panic seizes his chest as Tony moves to stand. “No,” he begs. His voice breaks. “No, no, please— Tony, you can’t—”

“Close your eyes, Peter. Stay down,” Tony repeats, soft and sad. “You survive this. You do that for _me._ That’s what you owe me.”

There’s no more time to beg Tony to change his mind. By now, both clones and droids have surrounded the pair, taking aim at Tony. The first shot is loud, and Peter snaps his eyes shut, pressing down a sob, trying not to listen, not to _imagine_ what’s happening just feet away from him.

Mercifully, it doesn’t take very long for the blasterfire to stop, but it takes much longer for the clones and the droids to clear out in their opposite directions. Peter waits for the birds to resume singing before he opens his eyes. They never do, so he stays still for nearly an hour. When he finally does open his eyes, Tony’s body is face down, armor half-torn off him. Peter can’t look again. He pushes himself to his feet and he runs in the opposite direction until he can’t run any more.

Peter does exactly what Tony tells him to. He stays down. He doesn’t pick up his lightsaber, he doesn’t return to the Temple, he doesn’t reach out with the Force. He stays out of the way as the Republic crumbles, watching in horror as the Separatists turn into the _Empire_. Every day, he reads the holonews for the obituaries, scanning the list of Republic casualties and begging the Force that Eggsy isn’t among them. The Avengers were publicly executed. Plo Koon was shot down over Cato Neimoidia; Fury was slaughtered by the faceless Emperor; Harry was killed on the same day and at the same time as Tony.

But Eggsy is never there. For two years, Eggsy is never in the obituaries. And for two years, Peter’s mind remains eerily silent, empty of Eggsy’s presence. Peter doesn’t reach out, for two reasons: one, for fear of being discovered by the new-ruling Sith lord, Vader, and two, for fear that he might find nothing at all but the vast, gaping emptiness of his own mind.

 

Eggsy is just as much on the run as Peter is. His mission with Harry had turned south when the 57th had turned on them. He hadn’t understood why Harry wasn’t defending himself, but when Harry shot him a wide-eyed, panicked look, it clicked. Tony was dead, and the Force was no longer with him. The pain had paralyzed him, and Eggsy had done his best to defend both of them, but in the end, he watched, horrified, as Harry’s lightsaber fell from his grip. His body had been dragged away by Separatist droids. Eggsy had been lucky to escape with his own life.

He’d sought out Yoda, but the Master’s only advice had been to run.

“What about Peter,” Eggsy had said. “Shouldn’t I find him?”

“No,” Yoda said, shaking his head gravely. “Longing and emotion— to survive, let these things go, you must. Mourn him, yes, but find him— no.”

Grief had washed over Eggsy, and his tone dipped into a plea. “Please, Master. We’d be stronger together. If you could tell me if he’s alive..”

“Killed, your master was. For what reason?” Yoda had replied sharply. He didn’t allow Eggsy to answer, speaking with more urgency. “Emotion. _Love._ Time for these, there is not. For the sake of the Jedi, survive in hiding, you must.”

So, with a heavy heart, Eggsy had returned to the lower levels of Coruscant, blending in seamlessly to a red world. Every night, he thinks about the empty space in his bed, and every night, he thinks of reaching out for Peter, but he never does. Like Peter, he fears that he might reach out and find nothing. Hoping that Peter could be alive is better than knowing that Peter is dead, so he allows Peter to be just out of reach.

But he doesn’t hide forever. Can’t find it within himself to allow the Empire to take root across the galaxy unchecked. There are rebellions, black market operations, underground sects of resistance fighters. The Republic didn’t die; it simply disguised itself, and Eggsy helps it however he can. Two years pass quickly. Eggsy keeps his lightsabers, brilliant blue and ever-ready, tucked away on his belt, but he defaults to a blaster to maintain his cover. A merc’s faceshield is good enough to keep his identity hidden when in public spots. Great use of the Force is off limits — Vader will seek him out and kill him if he brings too much attention to himself. With a sudden draught of Force-users in the galaxy, Eggsy finds himself sharply aware of _every_ Force sensitive around him, whether they know they are or not.

And so, when he sees a young man across the bar attain a drink with nothing but a slow wave of his hand, Eggsy perks up, eyes narrowing with keen interest. The man’s face is obscured by a hood, but he feels Eggsy’s eyes on him soon, and glances over, shifting uncomfortably.

Eggsy’s heart stops.

“Peter,” he says aloud, and stands so fast he knocks his chair over. Peter hasn’t seen him, and even if he had, Eggsy’s wearing his faceshield. He wastes no time in making his way over to Peter, gripping him by the elbow. Peter knows better than to cause a scene in public places, so when he feels a steel grip on him, he goes very still. “Come outside if you know what’s good for you,” Eggsy says, voice obscured by the mask, heart pounding nearly out of his chest. It’s him. It’s really him. He’s older, shoulders broader, hair cut shorter than Eggsy ever remembers Peter liking, but it’s _him._ He’s alive.

For now, Eggsy puts a hold on his elation, half-dragging Peter out into the alley. The door slams shut behind them, and Eggsy gives him a light shove towards the wall.

“This isn’t a good idea,” Peter warns, voice deeper and nearly a growl. His hand hovers near his blaster. “I’m telling you for your sake, buddy, not mine.”

Eggsy has no clever remark; he’s paralyzed. He forgets for a moment that he’s wearing the face shield, and he breathes a curse, tearing it off and discarding it on the ground.

“Peter,” he says again, and that’s all it takes. Peter goes pale, and tears well in his eyes.

“Eggsy?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy laughs, unable to choke back his own tears. A step forward, and Peter covers the rest of the distance, barreling into him and wrapping his arms around him.

“You’re alive,” Peter says, as if convincing himself, “you’re alive, you’re alive—”

Eggsy allows himself to retreat to the center of his mind, and sure enough, Peter’s presence is there. It’s been there all along. With happiness filling his chest, Eggsy allows himself to touch Peter’s mind for the first time in years, and the world explodes into blues and golds once more.

They pull apart for a second, and Peter rests his forehead against Eggsy’s, gripping a fistful of the other’s shirt. “Don’t leave,” he breathes. “Don’t ever let me leave again.”

“Never,” Eggsy says, and nothing is red anymore.

 

They spend their time working to unite rebellion sects and amass forces to fight back against the Empire. The two are inseparable now, both in mind and in body; Eggsy jokes that Peter won’t get out his head, but it’s not a complaint. After two months of planet hopping and evading Imperial troops, they find themselves in the bazaar on Celanon, meandering the vendors and enjoying a brief moment of peace.

“This is nice,” Peter hums, absently turning over some old Republic standard blasters. “Being here, you know.”

“Yeah.”

A hesitation. Peter picks his words carefully. “We could stay.”

Eggsy glances up at him, brows furrowing. “..But we shouldn’t, Pete.”

“I know,” Peter says, deflating. “I know. I just— I don’t mean _here,_ specifically. I just mean… like this. Not running. Together.”

“Tell you what,” Eggsy replies. “Marry me.”

Peter looks up, taken aback. “What?”

“Marry me. I mean it.” Eggsy’s holding out a ring — a plain band, nothing special, only paid 15 credits for it. But his expression is serious, and he gestures to the ring with his gaze. “I heard about it on the central planets. It’s this thing where you promise to—”

“I know what it is, Eggsy,” Peter laughs, and for a moment, Eggsy thinks Peter’s going to turn him down. Peter studies his face, smiles a little, and says, “Yes.”

Eggsy ends up having to return the ring and buy Peter’s correct size, and Peter complains that it was a scam because _he_ had to go and buy _Eggsy_ a ring, there was no ceremony, it’s not legal, et cetera. Bicker as they may, the two leave Celanon happier than they’ve been in years. It’s enough.

 

This doesn’t last long. They should have known Vader would sense them — again, like marbles on the bed, the Force gravitates to them, and they can’t stay out of the Empire’s gaze forever.

 

Peter had gone to get rations for the week, while Eggsy works on contacting the senator from Alderaan. He shouldn’t have let Peter go alone, but they’d _never_ had any trouble here, and there’s no warning. Eggsy doesn’t even have time to put up a fight when the troopers burst in, blasters raised; he stands, reaching for his sabers, but a blaster shot rings out, and pain rips through his ribs. They catch him before he goes down, twisting his arms behind his back and cuffing him, pressing him against the wall.

“This the enhanced one?” one of them asks, and Eggsy recognizes it as a clone voice. He jerks, trying to get free from their grip.

“Stop fuckin’ wiggling,” demands his captor, who grips his face to get a better look at him. “No. Not this one. Usually they’re together, so keep an eye out. —Where’s your boyfriend, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you,” Eggsy spits, still yanking to get free. It earns a ripple of laughter from the soldiers.

One of the troopers scoops a note off the table and dictates it. “‘Ey, look here— ‘Went to the store, be back in an hour.’ Leave him, boys, he’s not the one Vader wants.”

A wave of hot panic washes over him, realizing that they want Peter because of the shit that was done to him when he was a kid. They want to finish the job. “No,” Eggsy protests. “No, it’s not him—”

But it’s too late. They shove him to the ground, filing out with a few murmurs to each other to be on alert. Between the dizzying panic and the wound in his ribs, Eggsy struggles to get to his lightsabers, hoping to cut the restraints free. A harsh sob of fear clamps his throat shut, and he reaches out with his mind.

_Peter, you have to run. Peter— they’re coming! Leave!_

All he gets back is silence.

He isn’t fast enough. By the time he gets free of his restraints, Peter’s being dragged onto the Imperial ship. Eggsy’s sprinting as fast as he can, arms pumping, heart pounding, and he catches a glimpse of Peter’s outstretched hand from between the troopers’ armored shoulders. Peter cries his name, desperate, and Eggsy can hear the tremble of terror in his voice. _No, no, no—_

“I promise,” he mutters, urging himself to move faster. “I promise, I promised him, I _promised_ him _—_ Peter—- _Peter!_ ”

But the thrusters have already spooled up, and the bay doors slam shut before Eggsy even has a hope of getting there. The ship lifts off, but still, Eggsy runs. He runs and he runs, calling Peter’s name to the sky, not realizing he’s crying until his feet drag him to a stop. He collapses to his knees, hands grabbing at his heaving, _aching_ chest as he tries to breathe. Tears spill freely to the gravel, and he sobs out, “I _promised..._ ”

 _Liar,_ he thinks. _Liar, liar, liar._

 

He reaches out for Peter every day. He’s met with silence, and he spends hours searching the void of his own mind, but never finds Peter. Eggsy knows what it means— they’ve used a Force-restricting collar on him, or some other equally heinous device.

_He’s not dead. He isn’t dead, and I’d feel it if he was._

Eggsy loses all sense of caution in trying to get Peter back, flinging himself into danger after danger in hopes of just getting Peter _out._ It doesn’t matter if he survives it himself. He made a promise, and now Peter’s back there again, and he won’t stop until Peter’s free.

Months of silence come and go. Eggsy can’t bring himself to reach out anymore — he’s gotten lost in his own mind a few times, and it’s taken him days to recover from it. So instead, he settles for bigger, grander plans, allowing his anger to motivate him. Topple the Empire — or at least take out Vader — and he should have free access to Peter. That’s all he has to do. Kill the Sith lord. Kill Vader, and he’ll get to Peter. Kill him. Just kill him.

He’s not strong enough alone, so he finds himself exploring the ancient Jedi texts and legends, looking for something to give him an advantage over Vader. Without his other half, Eggsy’s already crippled.

 

This brings him to Vormir.

 

He climbs the mountain, clothed in the last set of his old Jedi robes, with his lightsaber on his belt and feeling like he’s carrying the weight of the world. It takes him some time, and when he gets to the top, the wind bites at his skin, cold and carrying flakes of snow on it. The beauty of it is unsettling, and Eggsy finds himself so wrapped up in it that he’s taken off guard by the voice that cuts through the cold silence.

“Welcome, seeker.”

Eggsy stiffens, taking a hard step back. A specter, watching him carefully from under its hood, makes its way down the steps, wind billowing at his cloak. His face is hooded, and when he comes into the light, Eggsy has to repress a noise of shock. He hovers a hand over his saber, and watches the Skull with caution. “Who are you?”

“The stonekeeper,” he answers. “You come to take what I protect.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” Eggsy asks, tone sharpening. He hadn’t read about a stonekeeper.

“No. I do not keep it from leaving.”

Eggsy lifts his chin. “Then tell me where it is.”

The Skull looks at him, and though his face is eroded and expressionless, pity flashes in his eyes for a brief moment. “I’m sorry,” he rasps. “You have nothing left.”

That hits him in the throat, hard and cold. He tilts his head and falters. “What?”

Again, infuriatingly, the only answer is silence. Eggsy’s voice pitches up. “I don’t understand. What’s that mean, nothing left? I’ve come here to take the stone.”

The Skull regards Eggsy sadly. “The stone requires a sacrifice, and it seems you have nothing left to give.”

A hollow ache blooms in Eggsy’s chest, and he takes another step back. “No,” he says quietly. “No. I’ve got Peter.”

“You do not,” the Skull answers. “You are alone.”  

“He’s not dead,” Eggsy demands. His voice wavers, giving way to dry, hiccuping sobs. “He’s not! I’ve still— got to _save_ him, you don’t— you don’t understand. He’s not dead. I promised. That’s why I’m here. I _promised_ him I wouldn’t let him go back there, and I’ve got to—”

Eggsy breaks off, tears blurring his vision. He lost his mom, he lost Harry, he lost his home and his life, he lost Peter and now he lost the only way to get Peter back. But he’s still here. He shouldn’t be, but he is. He doesn’t want to be. The Skull turns, as if giving him privacy to grieve. The only sound is that of the wind whistling through Vormir’s peaks.

He has nothing left to give.

 

And so Eggsy finds himself sinking in the blackness, slowly, caressed by the warmth of Vormir’s waters. As he sinks, the water gets colder, numbing the wound in his chest, but still, he counts the spots that hurt: _head, hands, chest, heart_ . He wishes he could have died in blue, but everything’s turning red around him, and his chest _aches_. His thumb brushes the ring on his fourth finger, and he watches the sun disappear entirely, leaving him in complete darkness.

 _Thank you for telling me,_ gravity says.

 _Wait,_ Eggsy replies. _I have to ask you something._

_Yes?_

_What do you need?_

Gravity laughs, soft and beckoning. Something blue flickers to life in the depths. _He’s waiting for you._

He shuts his eyes, allowing the absence of light to take him.


End file.
